Wedding Night (12 page)

“Because I want things to be
different
. I want to break the mold. I love you, yes? You love me? We want to make a life together?”

“For fifteen years I’ve loved you.” He shakes his head. “Fifteen fucking
years
, we wasted, Lottie—”

I can tell he’s going to start another drunken speech.

“So.” I cut him off. “We wait a bit longer. And then we can have a wedding night. A
proper
wedding night. Think about it. We’ll both be gagging for it by then. Absolutely … gagging.” I reach under the table with my bare foot and slowly walk it up the inside of his leg. His face is transfixed. Never fails, this one.

For a moment, neither of us talks. Let’s say we’re communicating in a different way.

“Actually …,” he says at last, his voice thick, “that could be fun.”

“A lot of fun.” Casually, I unbutton my top a couple of notches and lean forward, giving him maximum view of my uplift bra. My other foot is moving up to his crotch now. Ben
seems unable to speak. “Remember the night of your birthday?” I say huskily. “On the beach? We could reprise that.”

If we reprise that, I am wearing protective knee guards. I had scabs for a week. As if he’s reading my mind, Ben closes his eyes and moans faintly. “You’re killing me.”

“It’ll be amazing.” I have a sudden memory of us as teenagers, lying entwined in my room at the guest house, lit only by the flickering of all my scented candles.

“Do you know how hot you are? Do you realize how badly I want to get under this table
now
?” He grabs my hand and starts nibbling at the tip of my thumb. But this time I don’t move it away. My entire body seems wired to the feel of his lips and teeth on my skin. I want them everywhere. I remember this. I remember him. How could I have forgotten?

“Wedding night, huh?” he says at last. My toes are still doing their stuff, and there’s pretty firm evidence that he’s enjoying it. All still in working order, then.

“Wedding night.” I nod.

“You realize I’ll die of frustration meanwhile?”

“Me too. And then I’ll explode.” He takes my thumb right inside his mouth, and I gasp inwardly as the sensation rockets through my body. We need to leave soon or the waiter will be telling us to get a room.

And when Richard hears about this—

No. Don’t go there. This has nothing to do with Richard. It’s
fate
. It’s part of a bigger picture. A huge, sweeping romantic story starring Ben and me, with Richard only a bit part along the way.

I know I’m drunk. I know this is rushed. But it feels so right. And if there’s still a soreness deep in my heart, then this is like some magical soothing lotion. I was
meant
to break up with Richard. I was
meant
to be miserable. The karma for my
suffering is that now I get a wedding ring and the hottest sex of my life.

I feel like my raffle prize wasn’t a thousand pounds. It was a million pounds.

Ben’s eyes are glazed. I’m breathing more and more heavily. I’m not sure I can stand this.

“When shall we get married?” I murmur.

“Soon.” He sounds desperate. “Really, really soon.”

5
FLISS

I hope Lottie’s OK, I really do. I’ve been away for two weeks and I haven’t heard one word from her. She hasn’t answered any of my friendly texts, and the last phone call we had was when she was planning to fly to San Francisco and surprise Richard. As Unfortunate Choices go, that one took the biscuit. Thank God I headed it off.

But since then: nothing. I’ve tried leaving voicemails as well as texting, but no response. I did manage to get through to her intern, who assured me that she was coming in to work every day—so at least I know she’s alive and well. But it’s not like Lottie to be incommunicado. It troubles me. I’ll go round and see her tonight, make sure she’s OK.

I pull out my phone and send her yet another text: Hi, how’s it going??? Then I put it away and survey the school playground. It’s thronging with parents, children, nannies, dogs, and toddlers on scooters. It’s the first day of term, so there are lots of tanned faces and shiny shoes and new haircuts. And that’s just the mothers.

“Fliss!” A voice greets me as we get out of the car. It’s Anna, another mother. She’s clutching a Tupperware container in one hand and a dog lead in the other, at the end of which her Labrador is itching to get away. “How are you? Hi, Noah! Been meaning to have that coffee …”

“Love to.” I nod.

Anna and I talk about having coffee every time we see each other—which would be getting on for two years now—and it hasn’t yet happened. But somehow that doesn’t matter. Somehow that’s not the point.

“That bloody travel project,” Anna is saying as we walk toward the school entrance. “I was up at five a.m. finishing that off. Up your street, I suppose, travel!” She gives a cheerful laugh.

“What travel project?”

“You know, the art thing?” She gestures to her container. “We did a plane.
Utterly
lame. We covered a toy with silver foil. Hardly homemade, but I said to Charlie, ‘Sweetie, Mrs. Hocking won’t
know
there’s a toy underneath.’ ”

“What travel project?” I say again.

“
You
know. Make a vehicle or whatever. They’re showing them all off at assembly.… Charlie, come on! The bell’s rung!”

What bloody travel project?

As I approach Mrs. Hocking, I can see another mother, Jane Langridge, standing in front of her, holding out a model of a cruise ship. It’s made out of balsa wood and paper. It has three funnels and rows of little portholes cut out perfectly and teeny clay figures on top, sunbathing round the blue-painted swimming pool. I stare at it, speechless in awe.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hocking,” Jane is saying. “Some of the
paint is still wet. We’ve had
such
fun making it, haven’t we, Joshua?”

“Hello, Mrs. Phipps,” calls out Mrs. Hocking cheerfully. “Nice holiday?”

Mrs. Phipps
. It sets my teeth on edge every time I’m addressed this way. I haven’t got round to becoming “Ms. Graveney” for school purposes. Truth is, I’m unsure what to do. I don’t want to unsettle Noah. I don’t want to make a big deal of rejecting his surname. I
like
having the same name as Noah. It feels homey and right.

I should have chosen a brand-new surname when he was born. Just for us. Divorce-proof.

“Mummy, did you bring the hot-air balloon?” Noah is peering up at me anxiously. “Have we got the hot-air balloon?”

I stare at him blankly. I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Noah told us he was making a hot-air balloon. Super idea.” Mrs. Hocking descends on us, beaming. She’s a woman in her sixties who lives in tapered trousers. She’s so cool and unhurried, I inevitably feel like a gabbling lunatic next to her. Now her eyes rest on my empty hands. “Do you have it?”

Do I
look
like I have a hot-air balloon about my person?

“Not on me,” I hear myself saying. “Not exactly
on
me.”

“Ah.” Her smile fades. “Well, if there’s
any
chance you could get it to us this morning, Mrs. Phipps, we’re setting up the display for assembly.”

“Right! Of course!” I flash her a confident smile. “I just need to— One tiny detail— Let me just talk to Noah a moment.” I draw him away and bend down. “Which hot-air balloon, darling?”

“My hot-air balloon for the travel project,” says Noah, as though it’s obvious. “We have to bring them in today.”

“Right.” It’s nearly killing me, staying bright and breezy. “I didn’t know you had a project. You never mentioned it.”

“I forgot.” He nods. “But remember we had a letter?”

“What happened to the letter?”

“Daddy put it in his fruit bowl.”

I feel a volcanic surge of fury. I knew it. I bloody
knew
it.

“Right. I see.” I grind my fingernails into my palms. “Daddy didn’t tell me there was a project. What a pity.”

“And we talked about what to make, and Daddy said, ‘What about a hot-air balloon?’ ” Noah’s eyes start to gleam. “Daddy said we would get a balloon and cover it with papier-mâché and make a basket and people. And ropes. And paint it. And the people could be Batman.” His little cheeks are glowing with excitement. “Has he made it?” He looks at me expectantly. “Have you got it?”

“I’ll just … check.” My smile feels glued into place. “Play on the climbing frame a moment.”

I step away and speed-dial Daniel.

“Daniel Phi—”

“It’s Fliss.” I cut him off evenly. “Are you by any chance speeding toward the school holding a papier-mâché hot-air balloon with Batman in the basket?”

There’s quite a long pause.

“Oh,” Daniel says at last. “Shit. Sorry.”

He doesn’t sound remotely concerned. I want to kill him.

“No! Not ‘Oh. Shit. Sorry.’ You can’t
do
this, Daniel! It’s not fair on Noah and it’s not fair on me and—”

“Fliss, relax. It’s just some little school project.”

“It’s not little! To Noah, it’s huge! It’s— You’re—” I break off, breathing fast. He’ll never get it. There’s no point
wasting breath. I’m on my own. “Fine, Daniel. Whatever. I’ll sort it.”

I switch off before he can answer. I’m feeling a red heat of determination. I am not going to let Noah down. He’s going to have his hot-air balloon. I can do this. Come on.

I bleep open the car and snap up the lid of my briefcase. I’ve got a tiny cardboard gift bag in there, from some fancy lunch. That can be the basket. Shoelaces out of my gym crosstrainers will be the ropes. I grab a sheet of paper and pen from my briefcase and beckon Noah over.

“I’m just going to finish off our hot-air balloon,” I say brightly. “Why don’t you draw Batman to put in the basket?”

As Noah starts drawing, leaning on the car seat, I swiftly take out my shoelaces. They’re brown and speckled. They’ll make perfect ropes. I’ve got some Scotch tape in the glove compartment. And for the balloon itself …

Bloody hell. What can I use? It’s not like I travel around with packets of balloons, on the off chance that—

A ridiculous, unspeakable idea grabs me. I could always—

No. No way. I
can’t
.…

Five minutes later, I approach Mrs. Hocking, nonchalantly holding Noah’s project. The mothers standing around gradually fall silent. In fact, it feels as though the whole playground has fallen silent.

“That’s Batman!” Noah is pointing to the basket proudly. “I drew him.”

All the children are looking at Batman. All the mothers are looking at the balloon. It’s a blown-up Durex Fetherlite Ultra. It inflated to quite an impressive size, and the teat on the end is bobbing in the breeze.

I hear a sudden snort from Anna, but when I look around sharply, all I can see are innocent expressions.

“Goodness, Noah,” says Mrs. Hocking faintly. “What a … big balloon!”

“That’s obscene,” snaps Jane, clutching her boat to her as though for protection. “This is a
school
, in case you’d forgotten. There are
children
here.”

“And as far as they’re concerned, this is a perfectly innocent balloon,” I retort. “My husband let me down.” I turn apologetically to Mrs. Hocking. “I didn’t have much time.”

“It’s very good, Mrs. Phipps!” Mrs. Hocking rallies herself. “What a creative use of …”

“What if it bursts?” says Jane.

“I’ve got spares,” I shoot back triumphantly, and proffer the rest of my Durex variety pack, splayed out like a pack of cards.

A moment too late, I realize how this looks. My cheeks flaming, I surreptitiously adjust my hand to cover up the words
Ribbed for extra pleasure
. And
lube
. And
stimulation
. My fingers are doing a starfish impression, trying to censor the condom packets.

“I think we’ll be able to find a balloon for Noah in the classroom, Mrs. Phipps,” Mrs. Hocking says at last. “I’d keep those yourself, for …” She hesitates, clearly searching for a way to finish her sentence.

“Absolutely.” I hastily head her off. “Good idea. I’ll use them for … exactly. That. I mean, not.” I laugh shrilly. “Actually, I probably won’t use them at all. Or at least … I am
responsible
, obviously.…”

I trail away into silence. I’ve just shared details of my condom use with my son’s teacher. I’m not sure how that happened.

“Anyway!” I add in bright desperation. “So. I’ll take those away now. And use them. For … some purpose or other.”

Hastily, I stuff the condoms back in my bag, dropping a Pleasuremax and diving for it before any of the seven-year-olds can reach it. All the other mothers are staring, jaw-dropped, as though they’ve witnessed a car crash.

“I hope the assembly goes well. Have a lovely day, Noah.” I hand him the hot-air balloon with a kiss, then swivel on my heel and march away, breathing hard. I wait until I’m on the road, then dial Barnaby from the car phone.

“Barnaby.” I launch in. “You will not
believe
what Daniel just did. Noah had a school project which Daniel didn’t say a
single word
about—”

“Fliss,” says Barnaby patiently. “Calm down.”

“I had to hand a blown-up condom to Noah’s teacher! It was supposed to be a hot-air balloon!” I can hear Barnaby bursting into laughter down the line. “It wasn’t funny! He’s a shit! He pretends to care, but he’s totally selfish; he lets Noah down—”

“Fliss.” Barnaby’s voice is suddenly harder and stops me in my tracks. “This has to stop.”

“What has to stop?” I stare at the speakerphone.

“The daily rant. I’m going to say something to you now, as an old friend. If you keep going on like this, you’ll drive everyone insane, including yourself. Shit happens, OK?”

“But—”

“It
happens
, Fliss.” He pauses. “And it doesn’t help to stir it up again and again. You need to move on. Get a life. Go on a date
without
mentioning your ex-husband’s underpants.”

“What are you talking about?” I say evasively.